The Golden Rose
by Incy Little Spider
Summary: In the aftermath of an intense sexual encounter, Lysandre thinks about Augustine ... thinks about him in a way he knows is twisted and sick.


Lysandre's bedroom sat in hot, sweaty silence for what felt like an eternity. There was an almost ringing feeling of shock in the air, mixed with the satisfaction of release, the intensity of what had just happened taking it's sweet time to process. And then, like someone hitting Play, everything came back into motion. As he undid the restraints, Augustine's face crumpled, his bare chest began to heave and the floodgates opened, tears rolling down his cheeks.

He remembered the few weeks before, when they'd straightened out everything in the café after hours; the safe-words, the yeses, maybes and definitely nots … of all the things they'd talked about, it was this that Augustine had been the most embarrassed about. Sex he spoke about with an impish spark in his eye and a sly grin on his face, but sorting out aftercare made him flush and look away.

"I'll cry," he'd said. "It's just because I get overwhelmed. Don't take it personally … "

"I won't," Lysandre had replied, noting it down. He had picked up on Augustine's sudden shift in mood and had gazed at him over the top of his coffee cup.

"You understand this is just as important as setting your limits," he'd told him. The other man had shrugged, playing with his shirt sleeves and going quiet. They'd gotten it all written down in the end, but that cheeky smile only returned when it was time to go home.

Now, seeing Augustine with his eyes clenched shut, a mess of shuddering and sobbing across the bed, the urge to throw out all the rules almost overtook him. But he didn't bundle him in a hug, comb his black hair through his fingers, whisper sweet words in his ear like he wanted to. Struggling to control himself, he walked on slightly shaky feet to the chest of drawers. He pulled out Augustine's folded pajamas, his oldest and most comfy pair. He put them down at the bed by the other man's side. Then he gathered up the blankets, draping them as casually as he could around his shoulders, which were already beginning to shake with cold. He wanted to rub his hands up and down his trembling skin until he was warm again. But he resisted the temptation, going over to the en-suite.

There, he dampened a washcloth with warm water, got the skin balm that was waiting at the sink-top, walking out again to the bedroom. Augustine had wrapped the blanket tightly around himself, his breathing still choppy; but the bout of crying was beginning to fade now. His eyes were still closed, not so tightly anymore and he could see his eyelids fluttering as though he were in a dream.

"Do you need help getting cleaned up?" Lysandre said softly. The other man's throat jumped at the sound of his voice. Then he shook his head, letting out a small, hoarse sound.

"How about getting dressed?" he prompted. The urge was like a heavy tug in his chest, to go over, wipe away the stains from his belly and between his legs, rub the balm over the red marks on his wrists and the backs of his thighs until the sting began to fade. Pull his pajamas on and then lie him down across the bed, kissing his damp eyelids and cheeks …

But Augustine shook his head again. Against his stronger instincts, he kept his distance, putting the cloth and balm on the bedside table.

"Do you need anything to eat, drink … tea or hot chocolate?"

The professor was quiet for a few minutes. Quiet for so long, Lysandre thought he wasn't going to answer. Finally, his head jerked in a nod.

"Uh … hot chocolate please …" he said so softly, he didn't hear him for a second. When the request registered, he smiled, warmth billowing through his veins from the center of his chest. He couldn't help it. Going over, he cupped the man's face in his hand, stroking his cheek, feeling the contrast between smooth skin and rough stubble. Augustine nuzzled into his palm, making another tight little sound in his throat. Lysandre forced himself to step back.

Swallowing, he looked away, getting his own pajama bottoms from the drawers and pulling them on. He moved towards the doorway, lingering there for a second.

"If you need me, just call," he said. The professor nodded from within the folds of fabric wrapped around him. Lysandre left for the kitchen down the corridor. Listening for any sound of trouble from the bedroom, he made the drink in the mug that Augustine's mother had given to him years ago. He would've preferred to have given him one of the beautiful cups he'd bought in a set, delicately painted in the colors of sunrise. But he knew this old, chipped one was more comforting.

Walking back through the doorway, he found Augustine getting into his pajamas, hands shaking slightly, tugging the blanket around him when he was done. He took the steaming cup of hot chocolate with a smile, that gorgeous smile that made calm sweep through Lysandre's mind and body, assured him that everything was okay.

He took the equipment they'd used from the covers, bending down to pack it away in the box they had under the bed. The inviting look in the other man's eyes was confirmation enough that he was allowed to approach now. Climbing across the mattress, he wrapped an arm around his blanketed shoulders, fingers tangling in his soft, black hair. He felt his eyes fall shut as he breathed in his scent; no-brand shampoo and soap even though he'd offered him more expensive, stylish kinds, the faint cologne still lingering underneath the smell of sex that filled up the room.

Augustine pushed in closer and his cheek was cold against his, his hand brushing over his bare chest, warm from the hot mug of chocolate.

"Was everything … alright?" Lysandre asked him, not able to stop the thread of uncertainty from creeping into his voice. Augustine made a tiny, agreeable sound, taking a sip of his drink.

"Perfect," he replied, half mumbling with tiredness. "You were perfect."

The larger man shifted slightly. Through his eyelashes, he could see the slow rise and fall of the professor's shoulders, fatigue slowly taking him over. He took the mug before it tipped and Augustine laughed a little in his drowsy state. Wriggling closer, he pulled Lysandre's other arm across himself. Soon he was dropping off into a deep, unshakeable sleep.

He kept stroking his hair, breathing in his smell. He didn't want to tell him, that the brief crying spell and need for distance had unsettled him; not after he'd promised not to take it personally. In that moment, there'd been a sharp pain in his chest, something small and scared.

How could he tell him of that fear he kept bundled carefully in his heart … that one day Augustine would peer into the darkness of his mind and run from him? If he ever knew … what he thought about late at night. He could almost see it now. That sweet, contented look shifting to one of wide-eyed fright …

It wasn't normal, he knew it wasn't, to think of Augustine the way he did. To wish he could have him locked away in his apartment, away from everything that would spoil him, ruin him. He'd tell everyone that he was sick, needed less work, the work that stole away his sleep, made him grey-faced and tired. He'd still be able to study and write up papers, enough to keep him happy. Not too much though. Lysandre would control that. Control his time with the Pokémon too, the Pokémon that would always jump up with their sharp claws and teeth, Augustine laughing as they nipped and scratched at his skin. He'd have him pottering around the house, humming his little songs, doing his study … safe and untouched by the outside world.

These fantasies, deranged as he knew they were, didn't comfort him anymore like they used to. His mind would drift to the biting reality, of how miserable his professor would be, kept inside away from his colleagues, his friends, his Pokémon. How his face would go pallid, the weight slipping off him the way it always did when he was stressed, his eyes going big and mournful.

Yet still, the thoughts kept getting darker.

He remembered the roses Augustine used to get from his many admirers, mainly children with schoolgirl crushes. He'd let slip in an interview that roses were his favorite, so now that was all they gave him. Embarrassed, he'd prop them into a vase at his kitchen window-sill, asking Lysandre for advice on how to let them down gently. But Lysandre was always watching, half fascinated, half repulsed at the way the scarlet petals would drop one by one as the weeks went by, no matter how many times the professor changed their water. No matter how much care and love was given, they'd end up sad shadows of their former beauty regardless.

One day, he'd showed up with a gift that'd made Augustine laugh, flushing to the roots of his hair. A rose encased in the finest gold, preserved in its beauty forever. He kept it in its box, scared of damaging something so precious. Lysandre knew his expensive gifts flustered the other man, so he tried to keep it to a minimum. Sometimes however, he just couldn't help himself.

That sick fascination would worm through him again, like a parasite. Watching how every now and again, Augustine would take the rose from its case and carefully twirl the stem around his hands, brush the frozen petals over his lips with the smallest of smiles. Then put it away again with the rest of his treasured possessions.

Now, in the sex-scented darkness of his room, with the man's gentle breathing against his skin, his thoughts went there, went down the shadowy twisting paths to the depths of his mind. Of Augustine, asleep and happy, floating in gold water, floating in suspended animation. How he'd open his eyes when he approached, pressing his hand against the golden glass that encased him, kept him protected and safe. How they'd talk in hushed voices into the night, his voice muffled, Lysandre's low and soothing. Away from everything else. Away from the world outside that would hurt him, break him down. The years would pass and he'd stay the same. Perfect.

How he'd only leave the water when he needed to be touched, laid down across satin sheets and kissed down his pale neck and chest. His legs spreading as he was taken so tenderly. Left red-faced and gasping, his eyelids fluttering as though he were in a dream. Then when they were done, he'd return to the water, floating there soft-eyed and serene. An angel. His angel.

The man stared up at the ceiling, stroking Augustine's hair, a repetitive motion that always helped settle the treacle-thick buzz in his head, the droning static whirl that was always so loud the rest of the time without him. He looked over into his sleeping face, illuminated gently by the streetlamps that shone their yellow light through the window. So relaxed and open, calm as the surface of the moon.

He wouldn't understand. He'd be afraid. He'd run, far away. Lysandre's arm tightened around his shoulder as he buried his face into the crook of his neck, fighting back the lump growing in his throat, tears welling in his eyes. He'd never tell him. He would never know.


End file.
